Paths
by leechi nut
Summary: When Beast Boy journeys down the Straight and Narrow, Raven is forced to confront issues she thought she'd left in the dust long ago. BBRae.
1. Point A

_Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Titans. They are the property of DC Comics and Cartoon Network._

Paths

Chapter One: Point A

"I never thought I'd end up here. I never thought I'd be standing where I am. I guess I kind of thought it would be easier than this."

--Lifehouse, "Sick Cycle Carousel"

_If you've heard my name on the lips of a news anchor or disk jockey, you know I'm not normal. If you've seen me at a press conference or on a television film clip, you know I have what some might call 'super powers.' If you've fought with me, in the practice room or on the street, you know that three strange words are the precursors to a violent show of said powers. If you're a member of my team, you know they are the result of my heritage; you know that I, Raven Roth, am a demon._

_Well, technically,_ _I'm only half-demon, but what does that matter? It doesn't. My path was chosen by virtue of birth. I ended the world, and luckily enough, the world started again. But that hardly changes the truth: I may look human, but I am still an enemy of God, a kinsman of Beelzebub, a daughter of lies, sister of sin; I am still damned. Yeah, that's right. You heard me. I, the gothic freak of the Teen Titans, whom most people would peg as an atheist or in the very least a wiccan, believe in God. And I know he hates me._

Screee! Screee! Screee! I wince as the tower alarm suddenly screams in my ears, and my still-steaming tea slooshes over the brim of my cup.

"Speaking of higher powers," I mutter angrily. I cast a longing look at my remaining brew, wipe my wet hand on my cloak, and phase through the floor to answer the alert. _And on a Sunday morning, too_.

I reappear in the living room where Robin is anxiously typing at the computer console. Quickly flying down the hallway is Starfire, followed by a panting Cyborg. "Who is it?" he asks.

I feel the tidal wave of hatred roll off of Robin before he even says the name. "Slade."

Shock and concern for our leader chase each other across Starfire's face before she nods once and lets determination settle across her features.

Cyborg draws his lips into a thin line, remembering our most recent experiences with the man.

Since the 'incident' with my father, Slade has been lying unexpectedly low. I had hoped his brush with the demonic scared him straight._ Another hope smashed._

"Titans--" Robin starts.

"Where's Beast Boy?" I interrupt.

Three heads swivel around the room in near comic fashion. I would laugh if the tension in the room weren't quite so high--_and if I 'did' laughter_. Cyborg quickly elbows Robin out of the way and keys in a query. "Not in the Tower," he says.

Robin frowns, glancing at the screen where a digital clock counts out the precious moments that have passed since we first received the call to action. He shakes his head. "No time. Titans, go."

Like clockwork, we exit the Tower and head downtown. _Except there is something wrong with the movement. Something troubling about the empty space on my right where Beast Boy, in the form of a pteradactyl, should be. And something troubling about the fact that I find that troubling_.

We sight the disturbance, and I have no more time for idle thought. The streets crawl with Slade's robotic henchmen--ten? twenty of them? with more still spewing from the sewers. Starfire lets go of Robin, who descends in a roll, bo staff extended, and takes out two robots just landing. I lower Cyborg to the street with a wave of my hand. Through the fingers of black energy holding him, I feel my friend charging the sonic cannon in his arm; as my power dissipates, his smashes through the electronics of three battle droids. Star unleashes a hail of green starbolts on the machines, but for just a fraction of a second, I hesitate. _There are so many. And we're already one man short_.

"Azarath Metrion Zinthos," I cry, and raw power slices through me. Adrenaline dumps into my veins. Everything sharpens into the familiar, knife-edge sounds of melee, and I join my devil-black energy to the battle.

I hear Robin's roundhouse. Back flip. Bo staff smashing through robotic legs.

Cyborg's sonic boom. "Boo-yah!" Metal fist devastating metal pawn.

The creak of robotic limbs restraining an alien girl. Starfire's startled cry: "Help!"

"Star!" Robin whips around, leaving his back unguarded.

Computer processor sees the opening. A robot lunges.

Dark power seizes it in mid-air, crushes it.

Thwack. Pant. Crack. Pant. Robin wades through a robot sea.

"Release me!" More automatons grasp at Starfire's calves, thighs. The rrrip of her violet uniform sounds through the young girl's struggle. As does the fwump of unaimed starbolts hitting dirt instead of droids.

A charging cannon whirs.

"Azarath Metrion Zinthos" keeps the contraptions off Cyborg's back.

Zing of bird-a-rang. Smack of staff.

Blue light roars out, clearing a path for the masked crusader.

"Azarth Metrion Zinthos" halts a machine climbing Starfire's legs, tosses it into a nearby wall. Satisfying crunch.

Robots refill the empty places. Fewer now, but still: _So many_.

Pant. Punch. Pant. Pant.

Green eyes glow. "Release. Me. Now!"

Blue light blasts through a bot on Cyborg's right. Heavy breathing and a tired but smug: "Piece o' junk!"

"Azarath Metrion Zinthos" throws a nearby drudge into a lamppost. I wipe the sweat from my eyes--Pain! It radiates out from my stomach like nothing I have felt before. _Stray starbolt,_ Knowledge informs me cooly. I drop to the ground.

From behind me, quick, quiet footsteps. A voice that chills me to my core whispers, "My favorite demoness."

Some yards away, Starfire chirps, "Many thanks, friend Robin!" as a hand wraps round my neck.

Before I was hyperaware of the sounds of battle; now the only sound is a slowly building roar. My heart hammers in my chest, yet little blood reaches my brain. The villain himself has caught me. Slade tightens his grip and clears his throat, waiting for an audience with my teammates. I struggle. _I can't breathe--I can't breathe._ I panic. Power unfocused, chaos erupts around me. "Yo--" Cyborg whips around as a black-encased robot slams into him. But at least I have my friends' attention now. _I can't breathe!_ Above the white noise in my head, I see Robin's lips move around clenched teeth: "Let her go, Slade." I feel more than hear my captor chuckle behind me, and as my awareness begins to fade like a television screen with interference, I make out, "Such a pleasure, Titans. Funny... end of the world... still can't defeat me."

_God_...

I come to, gasping for breath, and shakily push myself off the crate I seem to have been flung into. I see Robin battling Slade one-on-one. Cyborg and Starfire are busy battling the still substantial horde of fighter robots, but often cast deleterious glances at the Boy Wonder; they have to fight twice as hard to recover the ground they lose during these quick checks. For a moment, I feel a burning pang of jealousy. _Why don't they check on me?_ Pride shoos the thought away--_I can take care of myself_ (_Liar_, whispers another voice)--and replaces it with rage. Simple, wonderful, mindless rage. My eyes flash red for a moment. _Why?_ the quiet voice in my head asks but is ignored. I growl aloud and throw myself back into battle.

Starfire, Cyborg, and I had finally manage to take down the last of the Slade-bots when I see the man give us a jaunty salute, kick Robin squarely into the same crate I distinctly remember waking up on, and vanish into the shadows. We are in no condition to give chase. Cyborg's machinery has taken a fair amount of damage, and his battery is partally depleted. Although Star's eyes still burn with righteous fury, she is nursing a sprained ankle and trying to hold her torn miniskirt together; I see lacy purple panties as she shifts to get a better grip on the offending material. Robin looks by far the worst; his blush at Starfire's state of undress contrasts horribly with the pallor that underscores internal bruising. That last kick clearly cracked a rib or two.

"Well," he pants, "guess... that's a draw, then." Our masked leader always calls these run-ins with Slade 'draws.' They are certainly never victories, but this time it's just a euphemism for 'thoroughly trounced.'

I shove my still boiling rage down far enough to heal my leader. He offers me a grateful nod and what could be considered a smile; in truth, it's more of a grimace. I realize just how drained I am only when I swoon a few feet in front of Starfire. I manage to pass the stumble off as purposeful when I raise a hand to the alien's swelling ankle and envelop it in white light. I rise with difficulty, and Cy flashes me a concerned look. I imagine I look almost as bad as my teammates, with dirt smudged across my face, skin more ashen than usual, and a hand-shaped bruise blooming across my neck.

"Raven..." he starts.

"Let's head back," I interrupt in a tone that abides no questions.

The bionic man frowns, but allows himself to be lifted into the air with a sweep of black energy. Beside me, Starfire wraps her arms around Robin and lifts him into the sky. The flight back to the Tower is oppressively silent.


	2. Wait

_Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Titans. They are the property of DC Comics and Cartoon Network._

Paths

Chapter Two: Wait

"I waited for you today, but you didn't show. I needed you today, so where did you go?"

--BarlowGirl, "Never Alone"

I slam the kettle down on the stove and begin to pace. My friends watch mutely from behind. _Well, my friends minus one_. I send a scathing glance at the empty spot where Beast Boy should be cowering. The mere thought turns my striding into the stalk of a caged animal. I am still high-strung from our blotched battle with Slade, and although I have a tight enough lid on it not to blow up any appliances, my rigidly controlled movements make my mood perfectly clear. Previous experience with my bouts of temper keeps Cyborg, Starfire, and Robin stock-still behind me. _There is a demon in their kitchen. And a pissed off one, at that_. _Best not to draw its attention, lest it grind your bones to make it's bread. Or rather, tea_. If I weren't so mad, I would laugh.

From the corner of my eye, I see Cyborg poke Robin in his recently healed ribs and give an exaggerated nod in my direction. Leader Boy gives an acquiescent shrug, but before he can voice whatever useless platitude he has planned, I whip around and fix the group with a look that could freeze hell over. Starfire shuffles her feet. Cyborg shoots Robin another meaningful look. Boy Blunder opens his mouth once, twice, and then lowers his eyes in defeat. I whirl back around and stare at my not-yet-boiling water.

"R-Raven," Cyborg finally manages to break the silence. I turn again and glare directly at him. He avoids the eye contact and gestures toward my injured neck. "Maybe I should have a look at that." I narrow my eyes, my answer obviously in the negative. The whistling tea kettle is the only reason I relent.

I pour the water and remove the leaves. Mug in hand, I storm out of the room. Three sets of eyes follow me all the way, but no one tries stop me. _Beast Boy would have._ The door closes with a hydraulic hiss, and through it, I hear my teammates' sighs of relief and the beginnings of conversation. I feel an unexpected stab of loneliness, and the handle of my cup cracks cleanly off, spilling my desperately needed tea all over the floor.

"Damn."

For a long moment, I stare dumbly past the ceramic arc in my hand, then finally pick up the body of my mug and continue down the hall.

In my room, I set the broken pieces on the dresser next to this morning's long cold cup and assume the lotus position. Sadly, my attempt at meditation fairs no better than my endeavor at hydration. All I can do is set the events of the day in an endless loop, which does more toward agitating my emotions than resolving them. In truth, this happens a good bit; nearly half the time I spend locked in my room is devoted to useless mulling rather than productive repressing. Still, I close my eyes and try to clear my crowded, screaming mind. "Azarath Me..."

_Hands, crushing, choking, chafing-- _

I grit my teeth. "A-Azarath..."

_Slade, his sickening, smooth voice, close, too close-- Touching me-- 'My favorite demoness'-- The empty spot, the gaping void where Beast Boy should have been, should have spotted him from, should have--_

I squirm. Although my thumb and forefinger still form an o, my other fingers leave half-moon imprints in my palm. "Azar..."

_His breath, hot, fetid, dangerous on my neck-- Breathe! I can't breathe!-- "You think you're alone, Raven, but you're not"-- You were wrong, Beast Boy-- You're not here, Beast Boy-- I can take care of myself-- "Demoness"--_ _God!--_

"Enough!" My eyes snap open, and a whip of black energy violently halves the remains of my already broken glass. A flying chip ruins its neighbor; stale amber liquid splashes across dark, polished wood and into the pages of an ancient tome. "Damn it!" I leap up, enraged, confused, unthinking. Suddenly, the shards are in my hand; my arm is drawn back to hurl them against the opposite wall. I stare in bewilderment at the display. The pressure from my fingers causes hairline fractures to erupt across the china surface, and abruptly, I recall that sharp edges and skin don't mix. I loosen my fist and carefully set the shattered pieces down in a pool of tea. "Damn it."

Drained, my legs give out beneath me. My conscious mind is finally, blissfully blank, but some part of me--Knowledge, perhaps--knows the anger is merely hidden beneath a thin veneer of despair.

I cross my legs, rest my wrists on my knees, and stare into space for the next two hours.

I awaken from my stupor at the sudden reappearance of the fifth Titan's aura in the Tower. "Beast Boy." I growl his name out like a grizzly and am surprised at the sudden savagery. I stand and focus. Robin is talking to him, probably grilling him out in that solemn 'I'm not mad, just disappointed' way he picked up from the Batman. _Good. I want him to hurt. I want to hurt him. I want to break his fingers!_

Horrified, I tear myself from that line of thought--_Demon!_--and about face. I didn't even realize I had begun to pace--_prowl_--and walk a few steps perpendicular to the line I was wearing in the carpet.

Robin finishes talking to Beast Boy. _But of course, Starfire will have to give him the 'speeches of both censure and cheering up' before baking the appropriate (inedible) pudding. And Cyborg will have to beat him at Mega-Monkeys Four a good 28 times out 35 before he is forgiven. I wish they'd hurry up. I want to... whatever soon_. But they don't stop him. I feel a trickle of tension spread through the Tower like dye in clear water. The boy moves closer. Past the alien. Past the half-metal man. _Hm_. I clench my fist for reasons I do not care to examine. _But not past me_.

I intercept the changeling in the hall.

"Beast Boy." My voice is low and dangerous, and it stops the green lad mid-stride; his shoulders flash upwards, his wrists flex, and his fingers curl in the cartoonish gesture of a thief caught just when he thought he'd made it past the sleeping guard. The reaction only fuels my anger.

"R-Rae?" he squeaks out as he turns to face me.

I glare. _Now is not a good time to ply me with nicknames you know I hate._ He swallows visibly. _Good, fear. Seems he knows when a predator is nearby, even in human form._

He amends, "Raven?" But I can't even speak to him. His ears slowly lower.

_Humility, good. Like a dog when its master finds out it peed the carpet._

"So... how was your day?"

_Wrong move_.

"How was my day? _How_ was my day!? I wonder _why_ my dear teammate doesn't know that."

"Rae--" he begs, tries to backtrack, too late.

I cut him off with a vicious slash of my hand through the air. "Where were you, Beast Boy? Where _were_ you!?" I hear glass breaking in the distance but could care less.

"I-- I--" Beast Boy stammers, looking down and to his left.

"Where?" I grind out. My eyes narrow and flash red.

Quietly, with a blushing grimace, "I was at church."

"And a hell of a lot of good _God_ did," I spit out. "I nearly died today!"

Suddenly, gently but without preamble, Beast Boy reaches out to me. A green hand traces the violet bruise at the base of my neck. The oddly intimate motion, combined with a look of such compassion on my friend's face, leaves me speechless.

"Nearly," he breathes, shaking his head ever so slightly. "That, if nothing else, should tell you God is at work."

I stand like one frozen. Thoughts and emotions rush through my head too quickly to sort out, except for the strange mental picture I have of Beast Boy's words as badgers trying to dig through the steel of my heart. I feel my pulse pounding under Beast Boy's fingertips, and I abruptly jerk back from him, pivot on my heel, and flee.

I could have run forever. I want to run forever. To never face this thing I want desperately to outpace. This thing more terrifying than even my father. This thing, this weight in my heart.

Instead, predictably, I run back to my room. At times like this, I wish I could relentlessly throw myself into training like Robin, or gaming like Cyborg and Beast Boy. Anything to get rid of this aggression. But of course, I can't. _I'm Raven, and Raven doesn't 'do' physical activity. Raven doesn't 'do' simulated violence. At best, I do real violence, and that scares the shit out of me. I want to scream, rant, rave, enact destruction on this place. Hell, it is mine; I'll do whatever I want with it!_

_Or I would if I had better control over my power. If I could isolate the area decimated by my emotions. A whirlwind of chaos, of broken statuettes and torn pages and dented walls._ I lick my lips, savoring the angry fantasy. _And after I was spent, I would thank God that our bedrooms are soundproof. God... This is all his fault. Bastard._

_I hate this. I hate God. _

_I hate the track my thoughts seem to be taking me on lately._

_I admit it. It all started with the end of the world. Or really, the end of the end of the world. We defeated Trigon, and things were supposed to be better, but if anything, they're worse. Sure, I look fine on the out side, if you call my zombie complexion and unnatural hair color 'fine.' But self-deprecating humor aside, everything is just... falling apart. I needed that rigid control. Without it... This newfound freedom is an abyss I'm afraid will swallow me whole._

I peel my fingernails from hands I hadn't realized I'd dug into and know: _I will fall, and there will be no catching me._

I need something, anything to do, actually, physically do. Meditation, at this point, is completely out of the question. _Probably the best thing for me, but I'll be damned before I actually do it. Examining these thoughts any closer..._ I need something to do.

For now, I do the only thing I can: pace.

If anyone could see me now, they would describe me not as angry, but as lost. How philosophically appropriate.


	3. Move

_Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Titans. They are the property of DC Comics and Cartoon Network._

Paths

Chapter Three: Move

"So I'll try to move on, and I'll try to know how (but the truth is, I'm really just running from the now)."

--John Reuben, "No Regrets"

_They say if you're lost, you should stay in one place; that way, your rescuers have a better chance of finding you. I don't subscribe to that theory, mainly because I have no expectations of a rescue party. Metaphysically or literally. Which is why I'm staring stupidly at the intersection of West and Main Streets. You'd think I'd know my own city better than this._

"Hey, move it!" I'm suddenly shoved to the side by a red-faced businessman, only to be pushed back against him with a high-pitched "Watch it!" and a dirty look from an overly bejeweled blue-blood. Despite my efforts to gaze at the signposts for a few seconds longer, the press of pedestrians at the busy crosswalk pulls me down the street along with it.

I finger my holographic ring, just to be sure it's still in place after the jostle. The bauble is a good deal too large for me, as it was modified from Cyborg's infiltration of the Hive. So, over the two weeks I've actually been using it, I've developed a nervous habit of checking it. The change isn't anything drastic--just a subtle switch to black hair and blue eyes--but with a shirt and pants instead of my usual leotard and cloak, you'd mistake me for just another average--_albeit vampiric-looking_--youth. Cy gave it to me out of the blue, saying, "You need to get out more." _I doubt wandering around like a confused tourist is what he had in mind for my social life._

I have always had a surprisingly poor sense of direction. It's a flaw I now realize was exacerbated by my reliance on the other Titans' navigational skills. _Sadly, the knowledge that I should have been taking mental notes of landmarks while riding along in the T-car is little use to me at the moment._ Impulsively, I take a left turn onto a slightly less congested street.

Earlier this afternoon, I took the bus to get to the newly built library, where I--or rather, Rachel--volunteered to help in an after-school program. It was surprisingly satisfying to read _Frog and Toad_ to first-graders, but the pleasure decreased significantly when I realized I missed the bus back. It evaporated entirely when I realized that shuttle had been the last one of the day. _I plan to write a scathing letter to the Transportation Department about their hours if I ever make it back to the Tower_.

I turn right this time. The street name means nothing to me, but then again, none of them do. I try a left. That store with the obnoxiously bright sign looks vaguely familiar. I could, of course, just fly up, take an aerial survey, and be on my merry way back._ But that rather defeats the purpose of being in cognito. And as a girl, I can hardly walk into some phone booth and change without someone noticing. So I'm stuck taking the scenic route back..._

_The very, very scenic route..._

_I hate the scenic route._

_It takes far too long-- Ah! Our pizza joint! Glory day! I know where I am now!_

I just remember to pull off the ring and don my cloak before I waltz into Titans Tower. The sound of Cyborg and Beast Boy's usual video game ribbing immediately assaults my ears.

"You're goin' down, Li'l Man!"

"Think so, ya big lug? Then, what that, huh? I'm not going anywhere but the top of that high score list!"

"You wish, Grass Stain! I'm gonna stomp you into the ground!"

At the hydraulic hiss of the door opening, Beast Boy whips around on the couch, giving the blue monkey on the TV screen just enough time to level its laser at the green one.

"Boo-yah!" Cyborg cries and delivers the finishing shot.

Beast Boy sticks his tongue out at the boy, then turns back to me, and asks sharply, "Dude, where were you all day? I-- we were worried."

I feel a vicious little smile tug at my lips. "Out. But don't fret. Unlike some, I had my communicator, just in case you needed me."

Beast Boy's eyes flash his hurt, and he turns back toward the television screen. I harden my heart against the pang of sympathy that threatens to make me apologize. _He deserves it_. I ignore Cyborg's frown at the barb. I may be his surrogate sister, but Beast Boy is his 'li'l bro.' He protects the younger boy, even from me, and while Cy may have forgotten Beast Boy's disappearing act the other week, I have not.

"Raven--" Robin begins timorously. For such a type-A personality, he is surprisingly loathe to manage interpersonal tensions, and I feel my leader's frustration at what he views as a failure of duty. I swallow the swell of pity; emotional reluctance is one of the things we share, and I've all but forced him to play peace-maker over the past few weeks. Still, I'm in no mood for another 'be nice' speech.

"Robin." My tone is a brick wall which no gadget of his can break through. Like Cyborg, he frowns his concession and reopens the evening post.

From her perch beside the masked boy at the kitchen island, Starfire leans around to give me a dazzling smile. My heart warms just a bit that someone actually seems happy I found my way back, but I know I have to nip her enthusiasm in the bud. "Starfire," I acknowledge icily.

She leaps off her seat and gleefully throws herself at me. _Apparently, encouragement on Tamaran sounds a lot like determent does on Earth_.

"Ah, Star, personal space." I gasp.

"Apologies, Friend Raven. But I am most delighted to see you've returned from your misstep to the city!"

"Trip," corrects Robin automatically from behind his newspaper. I'm vaguely annoyed that he's listening in on our conversation but shove the irritation down. _We're in the common room. It's hardly like he's eavesdropping_.

"I have procured a gift for you on my last m-- trip to the mall of shopping," Star continues, throwing open the refrigerator door. She withdraws a slim black box tied with a sparkling pink bow and shoves it into my hands. "Please enjoy!"

I stare at the package and briefly wonder what horrifying alien 'delicacy' could be waiting in its inconspicuous depths before remembering with relief that Jump City Mall offers no Tamaranian delicatessen. The worst I could be looking at is a batch of pickled pigs' feet. Nonetheless, I suggest, "Maybe I should wait to enjoy it 'til when the boys won't be clamoring for a bite."

"Oh, it is not edible!" Star explains. "It is a book!"

"Ah. Thanks." It's better than mutated pork chops, but I recall wanting to gouge my eyes out reading the alien's previous attempt at pegging my preferred genre: 88 pages of 'think positive' self-help. She looks so expectant, though, that I give in and tear at the double-knotted ribbon, getting glitter all over my fingers in the process.

"I am told it's a 'classic best-seller,'" she continues as I open the box. "Beast Boy recommended it." The lid falls to the floor.

Before my eyes rests a beautiful leather-bound, gold-edged Holy Bible. _I'm going to rip that boy's tongue out_. I cut my eyes over to where Beast Boy is trying to melt into the couch. _I hate it. I hate it, and I hate Star for listening to you. Though, I don't know why on earth I expected anything else. I should know better by now. I should just cherish the thought of a Starfire-gift and burn it without ever looking. Curse her. Curse my dear, naïve friend for staring at me like I'll squeal with joy and throw my arms around her neck in gratitude_.

I can't look at her and lie, and I can't look at Beast Boy and not maim. Cyborg is tense and silent in anticipation of a spontaneously combusting fridge. Robin is even more thin-lipped and white-knuckled in preparation of prying me bodily off his girlfriend. A flare of black energy crackles around my clinched fist, but I push it back, along with a scathing, _"Great gift to give your half-demon friend!"_ Instead, I manage to spit out, "I'll be in my room,"

As I phase out of the common, I catch the girl's tearful voice: "I am confused. I have done something wrong?"

_I hate to break her heart, I really do_, I think as I reappear in my safe-haven, _but_...

"I am confused," I mock aloud. "Well, why don't you just draw me up a nice bath of holy water while you're at it, Star? That should clear things right up for you."

With a mighty heave, I drag a heavy trunk out from under my bed, remove the spells around it in quick staccato, open the padlock, and hurl my gorgeous new text inside. It lands half-open atop the thick volume that moments ago was the chest's only occupant.

"Come now, dear. Is that any way to treat a book?" issues a suave English voice from the incumbent tome.

I'm not sure whether that loathed speaker is referring to himself or the non-possessed book that just joined him, and for a long moment, I just stare at the two. Finally, my inner librarian gets the best of me, and I reach in to pick up the Bible before the pages crease and the spine breaks. My fingers brush the cover of Malchior's literary prison, and I feel the feral tingle of the dragon's magic searching mine. I jerk my hand back to the sound of my one-time love-interest's low chuckles. "Bastard," I spit, and realize that I'm now clutching the Bible to my breast. "Bastard," I repeat as I slam it cover-down on Malchior's book and shut them both out of my sight.

"Really, now! Language!" I hear tauntingly through layers of paper and wood.

_I'll set fire to his pages!_ I shove it down. _Control your breathing. Control! Control_...

I am finally able to reset the spells and snap the lock on the trunk. "My, what an interesting book for you to have," he drawls on. "I'm sure it has a thing or two to say about that temper of yours, my hot-blooded half-breed."

I grit my teeth as I shove the chest back into the dusty darkness beneath my bed. I toss myself onto the mattress and try to drown out the noise of his muffled, maniacal laughter with a pillow over my face.

It's been a long time since I had to deal with Malchior._ Or Rorek. Whatever_. When I first trapped him in his spell book, the dragon would constantly rant and rave over his imprisonment. Sometimes, instead of shouting, he would beg piteously for freedom, claiming temporary insanity and miraculous reform. And on a few occasions, he stayed quiet, hoping I would think he'd escaped on his own and open the book to see. When that failed, it was back to yelling again. I seriously considered putting a soundproofing spell on the box, but by the time I felt confident enough to use it, the windbag had finally talked himself out.

_I wonder if I'll have to use it this time._

_All because some brats couldn't con their parents into story time. Although, Arella didn't teach me how to read, either_.

I remember the dull, low sound of chanting, clear in my memory against long hours of silence; it blots out the present ramblings of a trapped dragon._ The voice was followed by a rustling of pages. Coman's smile crinkled the corners of his mouth like parchment. The monk's ancient hands set out even older, hand-bound lexicons and pointed to the letters as he hummed in a surprisingly strong bas what we recited sprechtstimme that sunrise_.

At a loud banging, I struggle back to reality.

I stumble up from my bed, disoriented--I'm rarely overtaken by memories like that--and open the door to a nervous Starfire.

"Forgive my interruption. I was unsure if you were meditating or not."

_Meditating? Ha. How many weeks has it been since I did that?_

"I may enter?"

I make a quick survey of my room--Malchior has fallen blessedly silent--and nod. "Come in."

She smiles and seats herself on the foot of my bed. "I... have had a talk with Friend Robin." Here she blushes. _Done more than just talk?_ "He believes I may have offended you."

I sigh. "Star--"

"Please. I did not wish to insult! And I certainly do not wish to invite the Rekmas between us! I meant only the best! You seemed... not yourself this past month, so I wished to refill your being with sunshine and bunnies and"--seeing my twitching eyebrow, she reroutes--"black fingernail paint. So I asked Beast Boy about it because you never seem to be quite as pleased with my gifts as I mean you to, although on second thought, he was perhaps not the best person to ask, as your tastes are quite divergent too--"

"Star, breathe."

She inhales deeply and smiles a little self-consciously. "Apparently, the lady at the bookstore has different tastes as well. She agreed with Friend Beast Boy and said it was 'a good, if difficult read.' Friend Robin disagrees. He told me this Bible is a book that causes great divisions among your people--perhaps that is what the saleswoman meant by 'difficult'? It is all most confusing, as we do not have the books on my planet. It is all passed down orally, you see, and I will tell you, my k'norfka gives the most glorious recitation of the Epic of X'Hal your ears have ever heard. I-- I am rambling again." She glances down, twiddles with a strand of her long, bright hair. "What I mean to say is..." A deep breath. "About the gift, I beg your forgiveness. I have brought the receipt."

I'm shocked, though I shouldn't be. It's more than just the apology--_her whole visit was one long, meandering apology_--It's the offer of exchange. _I have a whole drawer full of Starfire's gifts that, when actually looked at, make me want to barf sparkles. Yet I've never thrown any of them out. The effort and love, misguided though it may be, that went into choosing them_... I shake my head and wave the piece of paper off. "Don't worry about it, Star. It's the thought that counts."

"Truly?"

I offer a small smile. "Truly."

After more tangential chit-chat and a promise to do 'the hanging out' again, I escort Starfire to my door and find myself, once again, alone.

Alone with my thoughts, my dragon, and now my Bible.

_Strange that I should retain the last when only half an hour ago I wanted to reduce it to cinders._

From the doorway, I stare into the dark abyss under my bed where I know those equally traitorous books lie, waiting to reopen old wounds.

I rub my arms, cold from the ice-water chill of things best forgotten.

_For all that I think, I hate to think about the past. The blinding, disquieting, empty past. The here and now, though it hurts, confuses, and frightens, is infinitely less painful than the past. And the now distant past is what shapes me._

_I hate Beast Boy for bringing even the thought of religion back into my mind._

_I hate that his smile, though set in a green, unlined face, is so similar to Coman's._

_A smile long gone. A body on the library floor._

_That familiar frame, always stooped and warm, replaced by a reed-thin one with cool, strong hands. Hands gripping, digging into my shoulder. I tried not to look up. Up to that thin, stern face that had frightened me from the safe distance of the dais. This close, Azar was terrifying._

_Her voice, tempered and even, carried through the cracked Council door: "I had hoped placing her with the monks would avoid such a situation. It was narrow-minded of me to worry only about maternal instincts." An answering voice, colored by hate and fear: "It was empty-minded of you to bring her here at all." Murmurs of ascent around the table._

_The same voice as before. Juris, Azar had called him. "You love reading so much? Read what's prophesied about you!"_

_I shouldn't have looked. Ignorance is bliss._

_Well, if God didn't want me, I didn't want him._ "And I certainly don't, now," I decide aloud. "After all, I survived an apocalypse without his help. I'll find my own way, thanks."


	4. Fall

_Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Titans. They are the property of DC Comics and Cartoon Network._

Paths

Chapter Four: Fall

"What if I stumble? What if I fall? What if I lose my step and I make fools of us all?"

--DC Talk, "What If I Stumble"

It's a lazy day. Curled in a ball under the covers, all I want to do is fall asleep again. _Sadly, once I wake up, that's it. There's no napping, no 'five more minutes, Mom'--as if I ever said such a thing--and certainly no need for the snooze button on the alarm clock Beast Boy gave me our first Christmas together. _I almost smile at the memory before realizing just who I'm smiling about.

Agitated, I flip over and blink accusingly at the ceiling. It's a lazy day in a lazy week. Crime is at a low, which is great on the one hand--_the team's reputation is finally beginning to deter criminals, it seems_--but insufferably boring on the other.

_I used to have no problems with these lulls. I grew up in the silence of an Azarathian monastery, after all, but I've acclimated to the constant noise and bustle of the bay. To have it suddenly stilled is just... unnerving_.

Even the after-school program I've been volunteering at seems to be winding down, and without that distraction... Well, there are just too many things I do not want to think about--my teammates being one of them.

The Titans' regular schedule of fighting super-villians usually keeps us all tired enough for the domestic situation to be tolerable. _Without it, I'm painfully aware that we are, after all, just a bunch of unsupervised teenagers. Beast Boy and Cyborg fight louder and longer than usual over what's for breakfast simply because they have nothing better to do. BB whines piteously over his defeats at Mega-Monkeys Four (and accuses vehemently that the game is rigged), while Cy crows his victories more annoyingly than ever_. I frown when I realize I'm not really sure of Robin and Starfire's whereabouts yet know exactly where, when, and to whom Beast Boy is being bothersome. _I'm not supposed to. I decided I wouldn't li-- care about him anymore_.

_No, I don't care about that sad, hopeful smile he keeps sending my way or his dimmed eyes when I brush him off yet again. I could care less that he lost all those matches to Cy because he was watching me instead of the TV screen. In fact, I care so little about him that I wasn't even offended at his latest poorly timed joke ("Rae, you're gonna love this. Two boys walking home after church. One turns to the other and asks, 'You think Preacher's right and there's really a devil?' 'Well,' says the other, 'you know how Santa turned out. It's probably just your dad!'"). Ugh. He is too far below my radar to even be noticed._

A knock at my door startles me out of my reverie, and Beast Boy's chipper tenor echoes against the metal door. I bury my head under a pillow. "Oh Ra-a-a-ven," he calls. _God, just go away!_ "Time to rise and... well, not shine. But anyway, we made breakfast! Imitation eggs and bacon!

"Cy made waffles, too," he tries to tempt after a moment. "Dude, that's some incentive! You're not sick in there are you? 'Cause you're normally the first one up and it's getting kinda late. I mean, even _I'm_ up! So, you should come on down and grab something, or just drink your tea, you know." His voice trails off, but I can tell Beast Boy's still standing there, awkward and expectant.

_Don't acknowledge him. Just ignore him,_ I tell myself, but my voice has a mind of its own. "I'll be out in just a minute."

"'Kay!" His joy hits me like the heat of a summer sun.

Annoyed, I gesture rudely toward the closed entryway and extricate myself from bed. Methodically, I shower, brush my teeth, and comb my hair. My mind wants to keep thinking, to take these paths I don't want to follow about Beast Boy and the Bible hidden under my bed, about penitence and my pedigree. I shut it down.

I pull on my leotard, wristbands, and shoes and fasten my cape around my shoulders. The alarm sounds, and I actually smile. A battle's a welcome distraction, a set of practiced moves and countermoves that encourage no thought beyond 'dodge' and 'disarm.' _I can do this_.

I teleport down to the main room where my teammates have already assembled. I try not to register the changeling's presence and focus instead on Robin's voice. "Hive Five," he says and glances over his shoulder at me. "Titans, let's go."

I fly behind the speeding T-car, appreciating my new-found notion of where in the city we are. _At least those library treks were good for something_. I glance over at Starfire, who is soaring ahead and to the left of me, then down to Beast Boy, who is leaning out of the car's window like a dog. _I wonder what they'd think about my extracurricular excursions. That I, queen of all things dark and depressing, now routinely read happily-ever-after's to rosy-cheeked moppets._

I tear my gaze away from the green teen with a sneer. _Not that I care._

The car brakes. Robin leaps from it before the wheels have even stopped moving, and with his traditional cry, the battle begins.

We've fought this lot time and again; the routine is so familiar I could do it in my sleep. We pair off automatically: Mammoth and Robin, See-more and Starfire, Gizmo and Cyborg, Billy Numerous and Beast Boy, Jinx and me. The sounds of Robin's punches, Star's energy blasts, Cy's cannon, Beast Boy's roar, even my own mantra fade into the background, and, much to my dismay, my internal monologue picks up where I left it. _If I really don't care what anyone thinks, then, why do I do it? If I've got nothing to prove--You know you do_, whispers some defiant part of me--_why bother with those library brats' runny noses and bathroom breaks and stupid questions? Like saving the city on a regular basis isn't enough._

_It's not,_ whisper two voices in unison, one shy and soft, the other sonorous and smiling with too many teeth. As Jinx and I circle each other in a volley of hexes and dark magic, I look at her, really look at her. _If it's not, why? Why fight and strive and strain against the dark? Why not, just this once, let my father's blood have free reign? Why not just give in?_

A flash of pink light sends the grate I'm standing on flying, and as I land on unforgiving asphalt I admit: _I don't know. I'd like to say it's to spite Trigon, to prove I'm better than him. I'd like to say that it's from some innate nobility in my human side. But if humans were born great and kind and altruistic, there wouldn't be villains to fight right now._

I push myself off the ground, nimbly dodging another attack. _I'd even buy into the idea that it's just some vestigial herd instinct. But herds let predators pick off the old and weak all the time. There has to be something else to it. _

_Or someone._

I grit my teeth. _How do you conquer what you can't see? That's one of the things I like about the whole super hero gig. _I encase a lamppost in black and sling it at the pink-haired girl. _That you fight flesh and blood enemies. Ideas, they're much harder to pin down. _

A fuchsia flash slices the post cleanly in two, and a second flare sends the pieces hurtling back toward me._ I can't seem to get rid of the thought that, inexplicably, all the stars aligned for Beast Boy that night in the hallway, and maybe, just maybe he was right. Maybe I do owe God._

With a wave of my hand, a forcefield springs up to deflect the metal hunks. _Bloody taskmaster! All he ever wants is more, more, more! I wish he would just let things go to hell every once in a while so I could have a day off. It sucks to be born evil; you're always trying to catch up._

A well-timed hex catches one of the halves and sends it speeding back at me just as my shield collapses into nothingness. _And you never do._

I am hit not by a streetlight but a powerful green tail. I land hard on the pavement, elbows skinned, the wind knocked out of me. I look up to see Beast Boy, in the form of a T-rex, toss away the post with all the casualty of a dog with a chew toy that no longer interests him.

I suck in a breath. Sound returns. I tune into Robin's shouted directions, to Beast Boy's verbal cues, to Cyborg's victory cry, and to Starfire's mixed English and Tamaranian chastisement of the criminals. I relax when I hear police sirens, coming to take the temporarily bound teenagers away. I stiffen again when, as an officer leads Jinx to the armored transport van, she calls over her shoulder, "You're really loosing your touch, Ravie-poo, if you have to get lover-boy there to fight your battles for you!"

I flush in embarrassment, though whether at the insinuation of a relationship or of incompetence, I'm not quite sure.

"I wouldn't count on your toad prince too long, though," Gizmo chimes in slyly from his seat. "Word on the street says the scuzz-muncher turned bible-thumper! And we all know what _you_ are!"

A frisson of fear runs down my spine. _They can't know! _Blood drains from my face.

The witch flashes me a coy smile. "His kind burn people like _us_ at the stake, if we're lucky. Or..." She lowers her voice an octave. "Maybe 'the power of Christ compels you?'"

The door clangs shut on mocking laughter, and the arresting officer casts sympathetic look my way. Then the engine turns over. The sirens whine away into nothing. I stare silently after the vehicle, fists clenched and back ram-rod straight.

Civilians begin to repopulate the streets, and in my peripheral vision, I see Cyborg elbow Robin in the ribs--a not-so-subtle cue to talk to me. Aloud, he announces, "I'll go get the car."

Robin rubs the back of his neck, but before I can shut him up with some biting comment, he manages, "There was some truth in that taunt, Raven. What happened out there today?"

Starfire bites her lip and nods. "You did seem somewhat... intergalactic during the fight."

"Spaced out," Robin corrects.

"Come on, dudes," Beast Boy placates. "Everyone has an off-day."

Starfire places a hand to her mouth and asks in a stage whisper, "It is 'that time of the month,' Friend Raven?"

My cheeks heat up again, and I desperately hope the two reporters I recognize in the growing crowd didn't hear that. The scribbling of pens on notepads suggests otherwise, though. "I'm fine."

Robin sighs, unbelieving. "I thought we moved past all this secrecy. If something's going on, anything that affects your performance on this team, I need to know."

"Robin," Beast Boy tries to cut him off.

"You were completely unfocused out there," Boy Wonder continues, solemn and critical. His words burn in time to the scratching of pen nibs. "Your offense was everywhere but your opponent. Did you even realize a light pole nearly knocked Star out of the sky?"

I cast a surprised glance at the redhead behind my captain; she nods in affirmation. Shame lances down through my skin to the bone.

"Rob," Beast Boy begs.

"And your defense! Beast Boy had to completely step in and save you!"

I have to do something, have to stop him before my bones are charred to nothing. "And a bang-up job he did," I lash out, gesturing to my bloodied arms.

"Hey," the boy in question frowns, "I was just trying to help. Next time you wanna be lamppost kabob, just let me know."

"I will! I don't need your help! Didn't then and don't now! Not with Jinx. Or Robin. And certainly not your damn God!"

"Rae--" His eyes are wide and pained. "Raven." He reaches out for me, grazes my elbows. Nerves fire white hot pain from the ruined skin.

_Enough. _My fist connects with his face. There's blood on my knuckles.

Beast Boy staggers back.

I stare at him, frozen and horrified and burning, burning, burning with shame. The guilt is overpowering, cloying, suffocating as smoke. But no fire engine can put out the flame.

I want to wipe the moment out of existence, but I can only stop time, not rewind it. I can't take back this misstep, can't un-fall this spectacular tumble. So I do the only thing I ever seem to know how to: I run.


	5. Wallow

_Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Titans. They are the property of DC Comics and Cartoon Network._

Paths

Chapter Five: Wallow

"She wallows in her misery. What made her think that this would be any different from the first mistake she made?"

--PFR, "Tried to Tell Her"

I assaulted a teammate. The sin is something that can neither be rectified with sarcasm nor justified with meditation, so I do what comes naturally to any coward. I flee. Down streets with no names. Past people with no faces.

I envy their anonymity. _Here I am, Raven, savior of the city and once of the whole world, running from my allies like a common criminal. _Featureless heads turn to watch the anomaly.

I shut my eyes. _If I can't see them, they can't see me._

But instead of the safe nothingness I expect behind my eyelids, I'm confronted with the face from which I fled. Beast Boy's image plays out against the blackness, his pupils contracting in shock from the blow and his irises oh so green against the bright red spray from a broken nose.

_My doing. God, what was I doing?_

I open my eyes, but the picture remains.

_The damage is irreparable._ _Probably not to Beast Boy's face--a cold compress and a few weeks time will fix that--but certainly to our relationship. To my relationship with all the Titans. I remember the somber 3 a.m. talk just after Trigon's defeat. I swore on whatever they thought was worth swearing on that I would never, could never, hurt one of my teammates, no matter my heritage. What a liar I've turned out to be. I can picture it now--how Robin, expression unreadable behind his mask, will do as duty decrees and expel me from the force. Starfire, ever afraid that our friendships might sour, will disown me for the greater good. And Cyborg, always the elder brother, will stand protectively in front of Beast Boy and tell me to get out of his Tower._

The thought hurts, and I try to put as much space between it and me as possible. Jump City rushes past me, an impeaching blur of sights and sounds.

"The nerve of that kid," croaks a voice through cigarette smoke.

"I shoulda seen it comin'," moans a boy through cell-phone static.

"Don't you worry," consoles a gravelly bas while cracking his knuckles. "I'll make sure they get theirs."

I shiver at the threat and dart into the midday traffic. Strings of expletives trip me up, and angry car horns shove me forward.

An idling Porsche blares an Evanescence song: "I know the truth now. I know who you are. And I don't love you anymore."

_That's just what they'll say, those friends of yours,_ croons a smug little voice at the back of my skull.

An Oldsmobile radio scans the stations, pours ten seconds of Nickelback onto the street: "This is how you remind me of what I really am. This is how you remind me."

_"Demoness."_

An old, ailing Ford sputters Everclear: "I wish I believed like you do, yeah you, in the myth of a merciful God."

I push myself farther, faster, away.

A traffic light flashes; I remember angry red bent on destruction. _You're your daddy's little girl, Raven, no matter how hard you try not to be._

The crosswalk sign lights up, a bright green figure against a black background--Beast Boy in the grip of dark power.

The neon flames in the video store window become my father's lava-filled realm. Fire demons reach for me leeringly.

The green 'welcome' sign in the cafe down the street is a blessed relief. It flickers out. The voice in my head laughs knowingly.

The Red Cross poster in the clinic window promises help. Promises are made to be broken.

The grass in the little city square smells of sweet, lush life. Trampled underfoot, it dies.

_All good is moot. Working. Fighting. Feeling. Lov--_ I shake my head, decidedly ignoring the tears leaking from my eyes and the network of fractures erupting across the sidewalk with my every step. I race on. If I can just outrun that inner voice, those damning signs and rebuking sounds, the guilt, the pain, the shame...

I don't want to feel them. They're too sharp, too bright. The emotions cut like shards of colored glass. They embed within me, indistinguishable from the physical stitch in my side, and I just want it all to stop. I just want to be numb. Surely it would be better that way.

What further proof of my true nature could anyone need beyond what I have done? But what can be done about it now? It's all broken, irrevocably broken._ Go away_, I beg the feelings. _Go away. Go away. Go away!_ Yet I wallow in them like a pig in the mud. I wrap them around myself like an old and foul and favored security blanket--or like a plastic bag. I run on...

Blindly, breathlessly, I finally crash through a set of double doors. The accusatory whirlwind fades to silence, broken only by my own breathy sobs. Those, too, eventually quiet.

Roughly, I wipe my eyes and cast a bleary look around. Vaulted ceilings. Gothic arches. Stained glass windows. "I've been here before."

I'm at once comforted and disconcerted that my feet have found their way to the same cathedral Robin and I took shelter in on my 16th birthday. Slade's voice rings out in my mind: _"All this time, I had no idea. The power lurking inside you. The glorious destiny that awaits. It's always the quiet ones isn't it?"_

I stumble back a pace. _I shouldn't be here._

_But where else do I have to go?_

The thought goes deep, echoing in a void I only haltingly acknowledge.

I suck in a shaky breath and take a step forward. Then another. Hesitantly, almost afraid it will burn, I let my fingertips run along the smooth pew sides and slowly make my way up the center aisle. I stop two rows from the altar and stare.

It seems so unassuming, just a low step up to a simple podium behind which hang three unembellished tapestries. _Father, Son, and Holy Ghost_, memory supplies. _I wonder if I'd cause a second apocalypse by going up there._

I stay where I am. I look away, down at the pew to my right. Fingers take in the textures: fine wood grain beneath clean, white paint and soft, velvet upholstery. Unable to move forward but unwilling to go back, I slide into the row. Weighted as if by lead, I fall into the seat and lay my head in my hands...

The groan of hinges behind me some time later is not really a surprise, but it still sounds uncomfortably like a lock sinking home in a ball and chain. I don't need to turn around to know that the agonized moan of a bloodhound nosing open the sanctuary door belongs to Beast Boy--I would know his aura anywhere--but I look back nonetheless. The doleful beast reassumes human form, then reaches up to rub his bloodied nose, but with a grimace, thinks better of it. The hands fall away, revealing a nauseating mixture of fading maroon on chartreuse skin. Lead resettles in my stomach at the sight.

Wordlessly, we stare at each other.

I wait for the razing to begin.


	6. Backtrack

_Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Titans. They are the property of DC Comics and Cartoon Network._

Paths

Chapter Six: Backtrack

"Maybe redemption has stories to tell. Maybe forgiveness is right where you fell... I dare you to move."

--Switchfoot, "Dare You to Move"

_Someone once said silence was golden. Clearly, they never sat in the ugly molasses of the moment as I do now. It spreads, thick and sticky, over me and into the corners of the sanctuary, solidifying into a single brittle sheet between Beast Boy and myself. I wonder if I will die here like an insect trapped in amber._

"Waben," Beast Boy wheezes through his swollen nose, and the silence shatters spectacularly.

The boy beams at me, and I blink back stupidly, uncomprehendingly, as he pushes away from the door frame. _Wha-- I don't-- I bashed your nose in not an hour ago! _He stops at the end of the pew and leans down, still smiling. _You should be shouting, screaming at me! You can't-- _Hands on his thighs, ribcage fluttering under the fabric of his costume, Beast Boy looks me right in the eyes and rasps, "Ah wuv ou."

_I have finally snapped and am replacing the man's ravings with words I dared never let myself hope for; that is the only explanation. _I look and listen hard for the invective I expect, but none is there. _Maybe he's the one that cracked_. "You must have jostled your brain. Let me heal you."

He just laughs and plops down next to me. I swallow, feeling completely off center, and reach out to touch his face. He draws in a sharp, pained breath but relaxes as white light soothes and reconstructs his nose. Task done, I lower my arm. _Bizarre, that I both hurt and heal with this hand._ Aloud I ask, "Are you sane and furious now?"

"I meant what I said," he replies, enunciation back to normal.

I jerk my gaze up to his, pleading with him to stop playing nice and get it over with. "I punched you in the face!"

"'Turn the other cheek,' right?"

"How can you--" I shake my head and wrap my arms around myself, biting my lip to ignore how my skinned elbows smart.

Beast Boy cocks his head. "This isn't exactly where I thought I'd find you."

"I've been here before," I reply, only half glad for the direction change.

"I know. Robin told me."

"Robin told you all?" _Betrayer_.

"Robin told _me_."

_Curious_. "Just you? Why?"

The boy pins me with that gorgeous, unsettling smile of his. "I asked."

My cheeks heat, and I hastily pull my hood up to conceal it. My companion frowns; he likes to talk face to face.

"Raven--"

"What's your real name?" I ask, astonished by the question my subconscious let slip.

Beast Boy blinks twice and answers, "Garfield. Garfield Mark Logan."

"Like the cat?" _What am I doing? Where has my tact gone? And why has what little Beast Boy had gone with it?_

"Only with veggie lasagna," he quips. "Call me just Gar, though, 'kay? Doesn't sound quite as lame." He offers a lop-sided smile, then suddenly, mischievously as his feline namesake, tugs my hood back down. I jerk away, hands rising instinctually toward my shoulders. He shakes his head, though, and the goofy grin becomes imploring and earnest. "If you get the real me, I get the real you."

Slowly, I lower my hands. We fall quiet, and every now and again, I feel him looking at me, then glancing away.

"So, this is a pretty nice church," Beast Bo-- Garfie-- Gar observes.

"You'd never know it was half-charred a few months ago."

"Yeah, they did a good job of fixing it back up. But it's more than just that, ya know? It's the feeling. I like it."

"I don't."

My companion's brow furrows, but I cut him off before he can ask. _I don't want to talk about it_. "Why didn't you tell us you were a Christian?" I ask. _Damn! I didn't want to talk about that either!_

Beast B-- Gar looks equally awkward. "I-- I wasn't hiding it, not really. I just wasn't, ya know, practicing, really..." He flounders and cracks that idiotic smirk that always precedes some horrid subject-changing joke. But instead of following through, he closes his mouth, runs a hand through his already disheveled hair, and answers with disconcerting sincerity. "I... I used to be on the Doom Patrol, ya know. And when... When Mento kicked me off, I blamed God. I'd done the best I could--I really did--and He betrayed me, abandoned me. Again."

_Again?_ I raise an eyebrow but don't press. My mouth finally seems to be cooperating with me.

"In hindsight, I guess it was the best thing for me. If I hadn't got the boot, I wouldn't have met the Titans. I wouldn't have met you." He looks down, a pink tinge staining his cheeks. "So anyway, I said, 'No more.' Didn't step foot in a church for years."

"Why now?" I prompt.

"Nothing special really. I'd been toying with the idea for months, ya know, after 'the end' and all. But church is early, and I would oversleep, or wanna just laze around the tower, or Cy would call a game-a-thon, or--" He shrugs. "So finally I just said to myself, 'Dude, stop with all the lame excuses and just go already.'" This time he doesn't try to hide the flush of embarrassment. "And that day..."

"Slade attacked," I fill in.

"Yeah."

"Beast Boy--"

"Gar," he interrupts. "You get to be Raven all the time. Today I get to be Gar."

I hesitate. "G-Gar." _I remember the day when you weren't there. Hands were crushing my wind pipe, and there was only an empty space where you should have been. _"I forgive you."

_It feels like the shingles on a roof sliding off, shattering on the ground to reveal what was always supposed to be open to the sky. It's a startling realization that I have never before forgiven anyone. I suppressed, let slide, said 'it's nothing' and 'forget it,' but never truly forgave._

I blink and realize I've been staring, even begun to faintly smile, but I don't look away, don't scowl and hide behind my hood. Gar is smiling faintly back. "How... How can you be so vulnerable all the time? You... maybe don't volunteer things, but you don't hide them either."

I search his eyes; they're the intense, two-toned green of a Congo forest filtered through with sunlight. He looks down and delicately draws one of my hands between his own. I tense for a moment at the physical contact but don't yank it back. It seems to comfort him, to at once ground him in the present and refresh some long past memory. When he begins to speak, it is in the low, slow voice of a shaman telling some ancient, sacred story.

"I wasn't always green, ya know. When I was little, my parents took me with them to Africa. Back then, the only green on me were my eyes. My mother's eyes, Dad always said. They were biologists, my parents, studying the differences between human and animal DNA, 'specially primates. And I just _had_ to go and play with 'em. That's how I caught sakutia." At my inquiring look, he elaborates, "It's this disease, unique to Upper Lamumba. One hundred percent mortality rate in humans. Well, ninety-nine, I guess; I'm the one that lived. My parents, their research, saved my life. And also made me 'freako the animal boy.'"

There is a bitterness in his voice that I associate with a chemical-doused beast. He avoids my eyes, intent instead on examining my hand, turning it over in his, tracing life and love lines. The contrast between grey and green complexions is striking. "Kids don't understand about different," he murmurs. "They threw rocks, called me names. It was a good day if they only gawked. And it only got worse after my parents died.

"They..." He swallows, struggling against emotion for the words. "They died in a boating accident. Flash flood. If I had the control I have now... But I couldn't change into anything bigger than a tucan then. I flew to safety. They drowned." His hands clench around mine. Drops of saline splatter on my fingers. I want desperately to comfort him, but my vocabulary is honed for slurs, not solace. My sense of ineptitude matches his own perfectly.

"Gar..." Carefully, I place my free hand over his.

He blinks up at me through watery eyes, and once again draws a measure of calm from me when I don't feel centered at all. He finally manages a weak smile. "You're... You're always surprised by how hard it is to open up, and then by how wonderful it was. I thought maybe... with Terra..." The sudden twitching of my hand goes unnoticed as he reaches up to wipe away his tears. "It hurt. A lot. So I figured I'd just not love again, even in a friendly way. But pushing you guys away just made it worse. That's why when Malchior..."

He manages to catch my eye, despite the fact that I want to look away. _Away from the yawning gap those names create between us. But the truth is, we both have our pasts. Denying either one is fruitless. _Quietly, I confess, "The stankball helped."

This time he gives me a full blown smile, and the distance disappears. He doesn't need to say he loves me again. It is simply there. I wonder how long it has been right in front of me. Thoughtfully, I look up toward the apse.

Gar follows my gaze. "You asked me how I could be vulnerable. It's Him."

I snap my face back toward the boy next to me.

He visibly withers under my hard stare, but only for a moment. He inhales confidence and speaks anyway. "After my parents died, their friend Tawaba more or less adopted me. Didn't make the villagers like me any more, even though he was their chief. Far as they were concerned, I should have been dead twice over, once by a disease even their witch doctor couldn't cure and once by the river spirit itself. They said, to have survived, I must have been in league with a demon." His eyes lock onto mine at these words, and in them, I see a pain I previously thought belonged to me alone.

"The day the missionary came, a couple of older boys beat me black and blue trying to see my 'true form.' I was laid up in Tawaba's hut for a good week without ever seeing the guy. But I heard him, every night, talking about a friend who wouldn't judge, a father who wouldn't leave, a God who, despite everything he had taken, would give it back tenfold. And I _wanted_ that.

"But you know how sometimes you hear something enough and you start to believe it? Well, Jesus came to save humanity. Great. I was barely human." He looks toward the altar and, of all unfathomable things, smiles. "Do you know what our missionary did when I told him that?"

I shake my head.

"He sang. 'Green and yellow, black and white, all are precious in his sight. Jesus loves the little children of the world.'

"No one is above God's love--that's what I heard from the back room of that hut. Face to face, I learned that no one is below it, either. It's waiting right there, if you'll only see it."

We become silent once more. I wonder if perhaps, beyond all conceivable hope, God could really be like that.

"You know the monks on Azarath were Christian," I divulge suddenly, surprising us both.

"Really? Like: 'Pie Iesu domine'--twack"--he mimes smacking his head against a board--"'Dona eis requiem'--twack?"

I offer him a small smile. "No, though points for the reference."

He beams back as though I had watched Monty Python by myself and not been forced into it one movie night. The smile fades. "What happened?"

"...I killed two men."

"What!?"

"I killed two men," I repeat, hanging my head.

"You mean by accident," he assumes sympathetically.

"Somewhat," I mumble, hiding behind my hair.

"Rae, that's awfully cryptic. You wanna tell me about it?"

"No." I don't even bother to correct his misuse of my name.

"Tell me anyway?" he asks and tucks the loose hair behind my ears. My skin tingles where his fingers linger against the delicate helixes, and my head raises automatically at the contact.

"I..." My pulse roars in my ears, and as if sensing my discomfort, his hands fall away from my face. "When I was born, Azar, the high priestess of Azarath, was given a vision. She saw my power, and the power my father would have over me. For the good of the community, I was kept away from my mother and any other neophytes who might inadvertently make me _feel_. I was cloistered with the monks in a sort of emotional deprivation. But Coman, he'd had children before he joined the order. He taught me how to read... and that my happiness was just as dangerous as the rage I'd been taught to fear.

"We were working through the psalter. He hugged me. The power surge stopped his heart.

"The Council of Elders wanted me brought up on charges. They probably would have exiled me then and there if Azar hadn't vouched for me. She took me under her personal tutelage, taught me to suppress my emotions, gave me that meditation mirror you and Cyborg trespassed in."

Gar rubs his neck sheepishly.

"But it wasn't enough for Juris... For years, he made it his personal mission to torment me. When Azar finally banned him from the temple complex, he riled the other magistrates up, said I was turning them against each other, that I was corrupting Azar herself." My hands ball into fists. "He tried to cast me into Limbo... It wasn't a clean death, not like Coman's. I lambasted his followers, demolished three city blocks, nearly unleashed Trigon on them. So I ran, back to my mother's home, back to Earth."

"Raven," he says gently, "that's bullshit."

"I beg your pardon!" _Here I am baring my soul, and you have the audacity to think I'm lying!_

"Look," he asserts, "I know a thing or two about misplaced guilt, and those deaths were not your fault! Geez, I can't even remember when I learned to read, so how young did you have to be for that? Four? Five? And that Juris dude--self-defense, Rae. You are _not_ a murderer."

I shake my head. "I knew exactly what I was doing when I unleashed my rage--"

"Why don't you like this church?" Gar interrupts.

Upset, unthinking, I speak the truth. "The quiet is condemnation!"

He raises an eyebrow.

_Well, I've already started, might as well finish._ "Temple Azarath was always so quiet, so tranquil. Azar said peace comes from God. And I'm the devil's daughter."

"Raven, you defeated your dad."

"That doesn't change who I am, _what_ I am."

"What you are is a child of God. If you could just see--"

"They _thought_ you were a demon. I'm the real deal. And I've seen what your _good book_ has to say about me. 'Even the demons believe that there is one God--and shudder,' right?"

"Raven," he finally snaps, "has it ever occurred to you that the only one who looks at you and thinks, 'Demon,' is you? I look at you, and I see so much more."

"Then your eyes are deceiving you," I spit. I rise, trying to ignore the pounding of my heart.

"Do you really believe that?"

I begin to walk away.

"Do you really hold out so little hope for yourself? Where's that optimism that Robin credits you with?"

I pause. "Even Robin is fallible." Then keep walking.

"Rae."

And walking.

"Raven."

I expect him to trail me, whining my name, maybe even pulling 'the face.' What I don't expect is to be twirled around, my chin caught between two strong fingers, my eyes--crimson at the unsolicited contact--forced level with bright green ones. What I don't expect is for him to sing.

"'Red and yellow, black and white, all are precious in his sight. Jesus loves the little children of the world.'"

I stand dumbly, frozen except for the blinking of my now violet eyes. Inside my head, unbidden, comes the image of his words as badgers, finally clawing through the thick wall around my heart and free-falling into the open space beneath.

"He can't," I whisper aloud, not really believing my words but afraid to accept the alternative, afraid to believe...

"Funny thing, God's love comes before hope. His grace comes when you have no hope. When all you can see are the floorboards underneath your feet, and even those are pulled out from under you. But God, He's in the business of catching people. That's what salvation is; it's catching you when you fall."

Gar releases my chin and gingerly, his eyes first asking permission, entangles our fingers. "Raven..."

I look down at our linked hands, up toward the apse. "I want that."

He smiles softly and wordlessly draws me past the two last rows separating me from the front of the sanctuary.

We kneel together at the alter. I inhale shakily. "Our-- Our Father, who art in heaven, ha--" I stop.

_No. That's not right. The rote prayer is just too... impersonal. I'm half-demon. One of the fallen. "The fathers have eaten sour grapes," the proverb goes, "and the children's teeth are set on edge." My father was Trigon the Terrible, and I... I am no better. How can I ask to return to an angelic state with words that aren't my own? How can I ask at all?_

Gar squeezes my hand.

_But how will you ever know the answer if you never ask?_ Gar's earlier words come back to me: _"I asked."_

I close my eyes. "God... h-hi. I know we haven't always... seen eye to eye. But... I'm _tired_ of being my father's daughter. I want You instead. I _need_ You. Please... If You'll have me, I'm yours."

_This time, the feeling is not just that of a few tiles clattering off; it's the entire roof. It's not opening a skylight; it's exposing the entire galaxy. It's knowing, with a beautiful and terrifying intimacy, the hand that created those far flung stars. In that instant, I realize there is a blood more powerful than demons', and it was shed to redeem me from Trigon in ways my team never could. It was God, all this time, who was supposed to dwell in me; my father has no claim here anymore._

A swell of such intense joy takes me that for a second, I'm afraid. But the chandeliers remain intact, and Gar continues to breathe. I smile, amazed. From his position next to me, Gar finishes his own silent prayer, looks up, and falls backward on his butt in shock.

I whip around, ready for an attack, but no one is there. "Gar?"

"Y-You're white," he sputters, finding his voice.

I raise an eyebrow.

"I mean, you're white," he says, tugging at my wristband.

I look down in awe to find that my black and blue outfit has turned a pure, snow white. _White_, I think, dazzled. _Whole. Unblemished. Unbroken. Reflecting all the colors of the spectrum_. A smile finds its way onto my face, and as I look back up at Gar, he returns it 100-fold.

In the blink of an eye, the expression turns impish, and I preemptively cut off whatever hackneyed joke I know is coming. "We're having a moment here. Don't ruin it."

He laughs at the familiar words and pulls me to my feet. "Let's go home, Rae."

"Raven," I correct.

He threads our fingers together again, and his warmth spreads up my arm. "Raven."


	7. Point B

_Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Titans. They are the property of DC Comics and Cartoon Network._

Paths

Chapter Seven: Point B

"Now, like the children of Abraham, we're reaching out for the promised land, for our home."

--Phil Wickham, "Messiah"

_For the past 16 years, I lived in fear of consequences. The world was ruled by cause and effect, and when I was the cause, the effects were never pretty. It didn't matter whether I was happy or sad or enraged--nothing good could ever come of it. Nothing good could come from me. That's what I believed. So, instead of exploring the proverbial oases all around me, I trapped myself in the desert wastelands of my mind._

_Now, however... Now, I need not be mired in consequences. Oh, they are still there, and still unpleasant more often than not, but they are to be lived through and learned from. _

_In that light, the confrontation with Robin was less painful than I thought it would be. The consequences of realigning Beast Boy's face with my fist didn't disappear like the swelling had, and my leader certainly made sure I knew it. Being put on probation was a heavy blow, but for a violent and public infraction, it could have been far, far worse. It was probably the shock of seeing me in white again. And of seeing my formerly black powers match my garb. _

_It was easier with the other Titans. All it took was one glance at my hand safely wrapped in Beast Boy's for Starfire to squeal in delight, draw us both into a bone-crushing hug, and then drag me off for a quarter hour of girl-talk about fashion and boys._

_Cyborg looked torn between wanting to give me a stern talking-to and welcoming me back as enthusiastically as Star. He finally settled on a lopsided smile, a good-natured elbow in my boyfriend's ribs, and a teasing, "Sexual tension, huh?"_

_That's certainly what the tabloids wrote the altercation off to--well, that and PMS. I walked around the tower with my hood up for the next week while Cyborg paraded around poorly done photo-manipulations from our 'lover's quarrel.' He must have bought a whole pile of the gossipy gazettes because no matter how many I threw out, the boy always seemed to have another one. I blushed more furiously for more continuous hours than I can recall in my entire life, yet I didn't blow up, emotionally or appliancially. A strange sense of peace pervaded deeper than any meditation session could--although I'm happy to say I can finally stand myself enough to actually engage in those sessions again._

_I'll be honest, though. Even with that deep-seated calm, telling Robin about my newly adopted faith was nerve-racking. "It'll cause problems. It's a distraction," Robin said. Extricating my Bible from Malchior's chest was no picnic, either. "It's a lie. He could never love you," Malchior claimed. But the dragon eventually gave up. And the bird begrudgingly gave in, same as when he found out about Gar._

_Gar_. I smile across the kitchen counter at him. _I'm still amused by his given name, but one can only take so much blackmail from Cy in a given week, so I've kept that information secret. For now._

The green teen looks up from the comics page and catches me staring. "You wanna look at Garfield, too?" he asks, gesturing toward the paper.

"The view's just fine from here."

Gar grins at my dead-pan and strikes his moped model pose. "It _is_ a fine view, isn't it?"

I blush and roll my eyes.

With a few deft moves of his hands, his semi-styled hair turns into an Elvis-do. "Aw, c'mon baby," he says, put-on accent and all. "You know 'I'm just a hunka hunka burnin' love.'"

"I think I'd rather have a hunk of burning tofu," I reply dryly and sip my tea.

Scree! Scree! Scree! I wince as the Tower alarm blares in my ears and tea spills on Gar's newspaper.

"Now I'll never know what the punch line was," he mopes.

"I'll buy you a new one when you get back," I placate as we walk into the conjoining living room. Robin is already at the main console, bringing up coordinates. A grease-smudged Cyborg trails us into the room, followed by Starfire, who, in midair, busily blows on freshly painted toenails. Satisfied they're dry, she tugs on her boot, touches down, and fixes Gar with a look of open amusement. "Friend Beast Boy, that is a _most_ intriguing hairstyle you have today."

With a jolt, the boy realizes he still looks like a sea-sick Presley and quickly restores his hair to its normal disarray.

I feel Robin's attitude shift from all business to blanketed rage, and I place a silencing hand on Gar's shoulder before he can try for a snappy comeback.

"It's Slade," our leader hisses, and the team dynamic instantly changes.

Cyborg ruthlessly wipes the oil from his cheek. Starfire's eyes flare righteous green. Beast Boy stands at attention. I inhale apprehensively and still the arm that twitches instinctively toward where a hand-shaped bruise once was.

Robin nods gravely at me, then tips his head toward the exit. We're _all_ needed for this fight. "Titans, trouble."

We fly. The rightness of the formation loosens the knot of my unease. On my left, Starfire glows with the thrill of flight and of upcoming battle. Balancing her out is the analytical boy in her arms, battle scenarios already playing out behind masked eyes. To my right, Cyborg radiates cool strength and confidence from his perch within green claws. And soaring in pteradactyl form is the changeling whose presence I missed so much on our last confrontation with Slade. I carry no one, but for once in my life, I don't feel alone.

We arrive at our destination, and as one, the horde of Slade-bots looks toward the sky. Robin shouts his traditional call-to-arms in free-fall, and on landing, the battle's engaged.

With a fearsome shriek, Beast Boy angles his wings and releases his cargo; Cyborg hurtles toward the throng like a bowling ball at a set of pins. Starfire's hands blaze neon green, and with a Tamaranian cry, the aerial blitz begins. Beast Boy circles back around, gains altitude, and then plummets toward the black and orange host at terminal velocity. I inhale, refusing to allow myself the luxury of doubt at the number of fighting machines. My eyes glow white, and on the exhale rides my famous mantra. "Azarath Metrion Zinthos."

To the untrained eye and ear, it must be chaos. But to me, it sounds like a freshly tuned machine, at once similar and yet infinitely better than Slade's remote-controlled minions.

Metal crunches. Fiberglass cracks. Bird-a-rangs fwip through the air.

Black metal boots leap onto blue metal shoulders. Cyborg scowls. "Ya dirty li'l--"

Starbolts zing out. An alloy shell collapses. A chipper "Owe ya one, Star!" follows.

Robotic fingers dig into green gorilla fur. A pained roar erupts as hair and roots pull loose.

"Azarath Metrion Zinthos!" A storage crate slams into offending robots, and a fanged grin is flashed.

Ensconced in shadows, a set of knuckles cracks in anticipation.

A bo staff screams through the air. An augmented hand slices cleanly through the staff. Masked eyes widen. "Shit."

Canon blasts boom. A motherboard fizzles into nothingness. "You're welcome, Rob!"

High-jumping droids intercept a low-flying alien. She cries, "Assistance please!"

A green grizzly barrels through the mecha. Displaced bolts pling against the pavement.

An industrious machine scales a fire escape, calculates the trajectory needed to bring down the nearby hooded girl. From the darkness, a perfectly camouflaged human smiles.

"Azar--umph!" An elbow to the solar plexus cuts the chant off, and suddenly I am gasping, falling, and taking the robot with me.

Steel-toed boots dig into the sand with the eagerness of a runner stealing base. Their owner takes off, and his strong arms catch both the robot and me as neatly as a baseball in a mitt. A swift jab to the faceplate throws my animatronic assailant off. I look into my rescuer's face, and the thanks I was about to utter dies in my throat. _I think I'd prefer the robot_.

"Slade." I spit the name like a swear-word, and vice-like arms tighten their embrace.

"What? No 'thank you?' 'Merci?' 'Arigato?'" the villain chides. I can practically feel the smirk on his face as hands--_painfully familiar hands_--wrap around my neck. I twist ineffectually and claw at strong, gloved fingers, trying to find purchase, trying to breathe. "I really have missed our little chats," Slade croons.

I wheeze some unintelligible insult, and the man behind me chuckles. His hot breath tickles my ear through the vents in his mask. I want to retch.

"Well, since it's just you and me for the moment, I suppose we have time to get reacquainted," he continues. "I've really been worried, sweet songbird. See, I heard the most disturbing rumors from our favorite fuchsia minx."

White fireflies begin to hover at the edges of my vision as the choke-hold becomes even firmer. "Birthday Girl," Slade's voice commands over the distraction of my fading sight, "don't tell me you've been reborn?"

Fear stabs down my spine at the man's inexplicable interest, and hands tighten around my jugular as if in response._ God..._

Suddenly, the hands are gone. A blur of green whirls by, taking them with it. I gulp down quick, deep breaths and stare in awe when the shape stops several yards away and resolves itself into Beast Boy. He spits and growls fiercely in leopard form over my attacker.

The kung fo master kicks the feline away like it was nothing more than a house cat. I encase a manhole cover in white energy and hurl it at the criminal. The second his block takes is all the time Beast Boy and I need to reassure each other we are both alright. Then Beast Boy charges back in, this time as a wolf.

They circle, pounce, kick, and growl. Teeth flash, as does metallic armor. In a quick duck, Slade picks up the sewer lid I threw at him. He spins around and rebuffs the beast with the heavy shield. The wolf refuses to yield, however; his fight with Slade is as impassioned as Robin's normally are.

It's not the swift exchange of blows I am used to when seeing Slade fight; instead, there are only erratic charges and brute force blocks. I can't get a shot in edgewise for fear of hitting Beast Boy.

Fortunately, Robin's bird-a-rang can hit a much smaller target than a flung cinderblock. Slade stumbles before freeing his leg of the ice freezing it to the pavement. My leader casts a reassuring glance my way as he leaps into the fray.

I let my eyes linger on the green boar beside the red, yellow, and green boy. _Take care of him, of them_, I pray, then turn to help my other teammates.

By the time the last robot is disassembled, Slade is long gone. He escaped, ironically, down the the manhole whose lid I hit him with.

Neither Star nor myself are trackers. The sewage confuses scents, so Beast Boy is no good either, and in the hissing steam, Cyborg's heat sensors are all but useless. The malefactor knows how to cover his tracks, so even Robin, our resident detective, cannot tell which way Slade went.

"I _hate_ him," Robin mutters as we ascend back to the street. He climbs the ladder awkwardly, nursing a set a bloodied knuckles. He is my first stop in battlefield first aid.

Next comes Beast Boy with his swollen eye and the 'Jump City Sewage' imprint on his brow. Still soaking in his comforting presence, I survey Star and Cy; their wounds are negligible. I suddenly freeze.

Green fingers rest against my throat just above where hand-shaped bruises are rising. I am caught in Gar's concerned green eyes. "You alright?" he asks.

I open my mouth, flustered, but manage to shut down my automatic, defensive reply. Instead, I allow myself to be warmed by the multi-layered question. "I'll heal."

He nods, understanding my equally complex response, bright boy that he is behind an abysmal sense of humor. He turns to the others and shouts, "So, dudes, who wants pizza?"

Cyborg grins back. "Man, we just fought Slade. Do you really wanna battle me now, for a stinkin' tofu pie?"

"I could take you."

"How about chinese?" I suggest with the faintest hint of a smile.

"Oh, I am most in love with the pork of moo shu!" Star exclaims.

"That would be good," Robin admits.

"Movie night! The foreign foods mean the movie night!" Starfire chirps.

"I veto any chick flicks!" Beast Boy declares.

"Who gave _you_ veto powers?" Cyborg retorts.

"Are you saying you _wanna_ watch some chick flick?"

"I'm not sayin' that. Now, you're just twistin' my words."

"Demoness," I hear Slade's voice.

I whip around, half hoping and half fearing that my teammates heard him too. I search the shadows but see no sign of the man. Unsettled, I make a move toward my teammates; then I hear it again. "You never answered my question," comes the voice over a cracked transmission screen.

_"Don't tell me you've been reborn?"_

I raise my chin against the memory. "Yes, I have."

Slade's one visible eye narrows, as if he's no longer quite sure what to make of me. I stare straight back, ignoring the shiver that runs down my back. Then I flick my wrist and watch the screen glow white and then go blank.

"Rae?" Gar asks, slinging an arm over my shoulders to stare at the crushed circuitry at my feet.

I inhale his scent--forest and earth and sweat--and exhale the tension in my spine. I carefully thread my fingers through his, letting him know through that contact that I'm okay. Or at least, will be soon. Together, we walk back toward my team, my family, my _home_.

"Raven," I correct belatedly.

Gar pouts. "I don't get the big deal. Rae's only one syllable less."

"And Ra_ven_'s just one syllable more."

"Friends, we shall go now?" Starfire asks.

"Yeah, me and Rae are ready now."

"Raven." I roll my eyes as I take to the air.

Gar momentarily changes into an iguana and sticks his long tongue out at me, before turning into a hawk and taking flight, too.

Starfire takes Robin into her arms and rises into the sky.

"Hey, don't forget about me," Cyborg calls from the ground.

I smirk and lift him into the air with a sweep of white energy. I feint a drop, and the boy screams like a girl before I catch him in a large, cushioned fist. "Sorry," I tease. "I think you're too heavy to forget."

"Ha ha," he laughs, then surreptitiously pokes his stomach. Half-serious, he mumbles, "Ya really think I look fat?"

Robin's snorts, Starfire's placations, and Beast Boy's caws of amusement as a Laughing Gull pepper the flight home. Warmed by their presence and by a greater, unseen one, I smile. _Home_.


End file.
